The Seven Deadly Shortcomings of Arthur Pendragon
by lawla
Summary: A seven chaptered fic composed of seven independent one-shots, centered around the theme of the seven deadly sins in relation to Arthur Pendragon. Angst-driven. Rating for *implied* sex scene in the Lust one-shot. Completed at last :D.
1. Chapter 1: Lust

**AN: A seven chaptered fic composed of seven one-shots centred around the theme of the seven deadly sins in relation to Arthur Pendragon.**

**Sorry if this isn't exactly how you see him, but he isn't exactly a very happy character, is he? :L However, it won't all be doom and gloom :)**

**Is a bit angsty I'm afraid :L. I've left _her _purposely nameless so she can be who ever you want her to be.**

**Disclaimer: Alas, I do not own Merlin... yet ;). Full credit to creators.**

**First up is lust (implied sex but no hideous graphic details):**

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Lust. Arthur hates it and yet he needs it.

Night after night they come, young women from all backgrounds, servants and nobility alike. All he needs them to be is pretty. All they need him to be is Arthur Pendragon.

He likes to close his eyes as they come to him, to pretend that for a minute, it's _her_ whom he lusts after. After all, it's _her_ he dreams of being with, _her_ whom he wants to share his bed. _Her_, whom his heart yearns for when the darkness comes.

It's _her_ who never does. Arthur Pendragon is alone like his father.

He stares at the ceiling as she slithers into bed with him like a snake. Initially, he recoils from her careful touch before embracing her. He needs this to feel something. He wants to feel whole.

Fleetingly, he is appeased in the heat of the moment. He allows himself to be lost in the warmth of another, allows himself to feel something other than the bitterness that eats away at him day after day. He imagines that it's _her_ under him and he is mollified, albeit briefly.

Desperate thoughts fill his mind. _What would _she_ think,_ he wonders? _What would she say? Would she be hurt?_ The answer hurts him more than anything and he makes a pact with himself that he must stop, for her sake.

This girl will be the last; he's sure of it.

He longs to feel numb forever but the moment is gone too quickly and the feelings return to ravage him again. He wishes he could be anyone other than the Prince of Camelot just for a day. Merlin perhaps? Someone with a simple life away from the pain and disappointment of his father. Arthur can never quite match up to Uther no matter how hard he tries. The only thing he exceeds in is failing.

The girl gets up tentatively before pulling her simple dress on and then fastening it with purpose. She smiles at him sadly, her blue eyes morose. She's prettier than the norm, he notes as he watches her tie back her blonde waves in a bun. He yearns to feel something for her but he can't; she is not _her._ Instead, he turns over and the woman leaves, her graceful footfalls echoing along the corridor. She'll be gone in a week but he can't even bring himself to feel pity. Arthur doesn't like being reminded of his past any more than his father does.

He lies awake until daylight breaks, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. The memories torment him but he knows that tonight, he will wreck another life. He tries telling himself that it is his right as Prince, but is not convinced. He is wrong again and he knows it.

A knock on his door alerts him to the fact that it is time to get up. He gathers the sheets up around him just as his manservant enters, arms laden with armour. Merlin smiles at him and Arthur does his best to return it before striding over to the wardrobe, still wrapped tightly in the sheet. Merlin watches him forlornly before exiting.

The young prince of Camelot listens to the door close before burying his face in his hands. He walks over to the basin in his room, dipping his hands into the water he finds there. Its icy coldness appeases him but he grimaces as his solemn reflection becomes visible in the water. The face of Arthur Pendragon, the weak and the cowardly stares back at him. He resists the urge to strike at the water, instead smiling coldly.

One day, he is going to make his father proud and on that day, he is going to be worthy of _her. _One day, he's going to deserve the title of Prince. One day is going to be soon.

He can see it now, and the edges of his lips curve upwards. Arthur, prince of Camelot stood with his wife and his son by his side as Uther looks on happily. No more despair or disappointment, no more fear or guilt, just elation and contentment. Arthur's finally free.

The smile disappears as the vision fades. Some day he'll be that man, but not yet.

He dresses quickly before leaving, marching through the corridors with purpose. He's finally made up his mind; he wants to see _her, _to confess that she's all he ever dreams about, that his whole world is centred around her! If he could only tell her, everything will be all right...

He stops suddenly, distracted by a tall, slim figure striding down the corridor. His confidence leaves him at once and he recoils into the shadows. She passes, oblivious to his presence and he is left feeling empty again. So the game persists and his heart still aches. If only they would stop toying with him!

He strikes out at a vase with a roar and it falls to the ground, shattering instantly. Arthur hates feeling doubtful; it is almost as bad as feeling weak in his father's eyes so must be avoided at all costs. He stares at the shards with a mixture of shame and surprise.

A servant nervously peers round the corner, her dark eyes curious. Arthur beckons her over without a second thought and she comes willingly, blushing slightly. For the briefest second, Arthur feels a vindictive kind of satisfaction before the feeling fades leaving him empty once again. He whispers in her ear before pulling away watching the way that her eyes widen in disbelief. He stares at her for several seconds until she nods. Then he walks away as the shame returns. _Tomorrow, _he thinks. _I'll tell _her_ tomorrow. _The lie echoes in his mind for several seconds. _Tomorrow, _he repeats, _but first is tonight._

This girl will be the last; he's sure of it.

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**Please read and review :) Constructive critism is always welcome, as is praise (if I deserve it) :)**


	2. Chapter 2: Envy

**AN: Chapter two, waheyy!**

**Not to sure about this one (not sure when I'll next be able to get online so it's only a rough draft) so reviews would be much appreciated! **

**Thank you to All At Sea, Hogaboom and Tigger101 for their wonderful reviews :). You guys make my day!**

**Up next is Envy :D**

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Envy; it eats away at Arthur slowly, every bite leaving less of a man and more of a hollow shell.

He shouldn't feel it. He knows that there isn't a man in the kingdom who wouldn't wish to swap places with him, even for a day. Fools, everyone one of them. No one understands, and the truth of it is, no one wants to. How could they, with their simpleton lives and ways of thinking? All they see is Arthur Pendragon, heir to the throne of Camelot, who basks in the riches and glory of his position, always special, always admired...

Always empty.

He wishes that there was someone who could understand, but of course, there isn't. Arthur Pendragon is a one-off. Unique even. He should be happy, but being unique means being alone and Arthur is frightened of that. He does not want to turn into his father, bitter and resentful to all. He doesn't want to follow the path laid out for him. He just wants to be Arthur.

He often watches the world outside his window, imagining just for a minute, that he is one of the ordinary people going about their daily business. No pressure, no expectations; just love and normality and the dream of a better life. Arthur could live with that. Anything is better than this.

A knock on the door drags him from his thoughts. His servant enters as he always does, bowing awkwardly before beginning to babble away. Arthur finds himself frowning slightly before hastily rearranging his features into a shadow of a smile, offering encouragement every now and then though he is not really listening, lost deep in thought. It frightens Arthur to think that he envies Merlin, a common servant instated to his side by luck, no more important than any another. If anything, Merlin should envy him!

Still, Arthur longs for the young man's freedom, his carelessness, and his passion. It's easy to be rash when the future of the kingdom doesn't depend on you. It's easy to be rash when you have someone that loves you. It isn't easy being Arthur.

The subject changes and Arthur finds himself growing increasingly bitter as Merlin drones about Gaius, his guardian. Gaius, whom loves Merlin like a son. Gaius, whom is supportive and fatherly. Gaius, whom brought Arthur into this wretched world.

Merlin pauses, suddenly concerned as he notices the sudden change in his Master's expression. He asks him about it gently, wary of Arthur's response. His concern is rewarded with an angry snarl, before Arthur turns on his heel and stalks out of the room. Merlin is left standing alone, mouth ajar, wondering what it is that he's done wrong.

Arthur stomps through the corridors, fists curled. All who he sees move aside to let him pass, eager to avoid the force of his wrath. They know of it well, just as they know of Uther's. Like father, like son they say, and every time Arthur hears it, he dies a little inside. Arthur doesn't want to be like his father.

A servant appears from nowhere, eyes wide. He's a thin man, sallow faced with close set eyes and the beginning of a beard on his chin. He hands Arthur a scroll before scuttling around the corner and vanishing. Arthur reads it with disdain; he has been summoned.

The hall is bustling when he enters. Various people line the sides of the room, all awaiting his grand entrance. Arthur fights to keep his face blank as he bows to his father, before taking a seat at the side of the room.

Uther begins to speak, a tight smile on his lips. Arthur's seen that smile on his own face too. The face of the king, the courtiers call it when they think Uther's back is turned. One day, they say, that will be Arthur's face too.

The king turns to him and all he can see is year's worth of mordant disappointment. Not good enough, not brave enough, not strong enough, not attractive enough... The unspoken list goes on and Arthur seems to whither beneath his father's unforgiving gaze. Arthur can never be as good as Uther, no matter how hard he tries.

He looks around him, desperate to avoid his father's steely eyes. In the corner of the room, he spies Merlin, and next to him, Gaius. The jealousy flares in Arthur again, but this time, there is also raw, heated anger. How is it that Gaius cared more about Merlin than Uther does for his own flesh and blood? How fair is it that Arthur must strive for his father's affection, yet Gaius gives it freely? The answer comes to him quickly; it isn't.

The sea of faces seem to merge together, endless smiles and laughs as the king addresses his 'loyal' subjects. How false they are, how blissfully ignorant of other's problems. Still, Arthur envies the respect they command from the king; it is more than he ever has.

Arthur's gaze connects with Merlin and he holds it steady, eyes daring the younger man to look away. Merlin stares back defiantly, and Arthur feels a flash of admiration for his servant amongst all the bitterness and jealousy. For the hundredth time that day, Arthur wishes their roles were reversed. Selfish, he knows, but hasn't he been through enough? He just wants to escape, to be away from all the anger and the pain, to be normal like Merlin. After all, what secrets is the servant hiding that could hurt more than Arthur's own? He's tired of all the skeletons waiting to leap out in the closet, tired of all the responsibility, all the pressure, all the guilt...

Uther blames him, he knows. It's his fault she's dead; the mother he never knew, because he killed her. His first breaths were his mother's last, and now, all that remains of her is a slowly rotting corpse buried six feet under. He was meant to be the son Uther had wanted from the beginning. The son he needed to carry on his line. Instead, he is the son who is never quite good enough for his title. The son that stole Uther's life from him. The son that was a murderer from birth.

Merlin's gaze finally drops, though Arthur barely notices. He's lost in the world in his head, where his mother lives and Uther is proud of him. It's a dream he has every day, a fake dream in which he is happy because he is loved. Then, reality returns to him like a fist in the stomach as the truth ricochets around his head.

Arthur Pendragon lives without love.


	3. Chapter 3: Anger

**AN: Gah, this chapter is the bane of my existance! Seriously, I've edited it and re-edited it and I'm still not happy with it. It's a little too... clunky? I'm not sure if Arthur's anger really comes across in it the way I intended it to. And besides, it's a little longer than the others :/**

**Anyway, I decided to base this one on a specific event actually in the series; namely, the stand off with the griffin at the end where Lancelot and Merlin have to save the day. It was pretty hard to choose what though, so this chapter will probably end up being re-written when I have time. There's just so much that could make Arthur angry!**

**Disclaimer: Surely the point of fanfiction is that I'm a fan? Therefore, I don't own the series, nor do I gain any money by writting this (though if the BBC want to give me some, I'm not complaining ;]).**

**Reviews are especially appreciated for this chapter (:.**

**Enjoy, and hopefully it's not too bad... :/**

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Anger; it flows through Arthur's veins, strong and powerful, slowly consuming him until all that is left is bitter anger and regret.

He cannot escape it, just like he cannot escape who he is: Arthur Pendragon, Prince of Camelot, the disappointing son of the great King, Uther Pendragon. The anger he tries so hard to be rid of will never be gone because it is as much a part of him as it is of his father. The thought sends a shiver down his spine and he fights to push it from his mind. He will need all his concentration if he's going to succeed.

His men stare at him, well aware that there's a good chance that they won't make it out of this alive. They look to him for support and guidance, unaware that he doesn't even have any for himself, let alone them. They don't understand that Arthur's not the great prince he's lead them to believe in his cockiness and arrogance; he's just running scared like the rest of them, trying to please a father who never really cared.

A father who should have cared! Arthur is everything Uther has ever asked for, is he not? A brave man, obedient and courteous, a strong warrior determined to do his king and country proud. Determined to do his father proud. Doesn't Uther understand that Arthur can give him no more, that he can _be _no more?

No. To Uther, Arthur's best is not good enough.

A shriek to their left startles the knights though their formation holds. They can hear it now, padding through the trees, a silent stalker just waiting to rip out their throats. Arthur's hand shakes slightly and his heart begins to pound in his chest. The creature is coming.

One of the men beside him begins to pray, muttering to God to help him. Arthur knows that praying is no use; God cannot help them. They are alone in their peril. The creature is coming and it's bringing death with it.

Arthur is used to death. He has seen it and he has dealt it, smiting his enemies down without a second thought. It's easier that way because it hurts less. Still, their faces are burned in his mind forever, small scars that will never be gone no matter how hard he tries to be rid of them. Arthur always remembers who he's killed.

He knows that he'll remember these men too. Some are young, flighty men, with a great many years left ahead of them. Others are older, men who have served the country for years in the vain hope that one day, they will be rewarded with the respect and power of their sires. All are his friends. All are going to die.

The anger flares inside him again and he brandishes his sword with passion. If this is to be his last fight – _Because _this is his last fight, he will make it such a fight that it will be remembered in tales forever.

Arthur smiles vindictively at the image of his father kneeling beside his broken body, shoulders shaking and face in his hands. _Let him weep, _thinks Arthur. _Let him realise that this was his fault! To send us here so unprepared, so helpless... _The anger rises again, threatening to spill out of him like water from a pail. To send his own son into –

It's unforgivable.

A sharp cry echoes through the trees, the harsh sound reverberating around Arthur's helmet. He wishes the creature would just show itself so that the battle may be over and done with. With every second, his men lose nerve and a defeat looks ever probable. Arthur wishes he had more men with him; their numbers are too little to do much damage if what Gaius says is true. His fury rises as he realises that they are powerless without magic.

Arthur hates being helpless.

More thoughts about his father come to mind and Arthur has to fight to suppress them. How wrong it is that a son should loathe his father in such a way. Uther should have been a role model, the man Arthur wanted to grow up and become. Instead, Arthur can't think of anyone he wants less.

There's a bitter taste in his mouth as Arthur forces himself to stop. He can't afford to get angry; fury means mistakes and mistakes mean certain death. Still, as much as he tries not to think about it, the thoughts can't be banished from his mind. It's almost as if he wants to die...

No. He can't leave his men. They need him, what with the man they have for the king. The man Arthur has as a father.

That's what makes it worse, Arthur realises. The fact that it's his father sat warm and cosy up in the castle, his father who's sending them on this pointless mission, his father that's condemned them all to death. His father, who only days ago had told him he was proud of him. Arthur sees none of that now.

Uther might as well have executed Arthur himself.

The smile returns although the vision is different; Uther stood at a grave, his face worn, cheeks hollow, eyes empty... The solitary thought drifts around Arthur's mind;

_Let him know what it is like to be a murderer of one you love. _

Arthur grips the sword tighter as the creature emerges from the trees. A griffin they call it, a creature of magic. All he can see is a mindless killer, bent on causing wanton destruction and misery. It has no reason, no compassion. It doesn't care that its victims are innocent: women, children, the elderly... Good people who deserve life. By sacrificing his own, hopefully Arthur can give it to them.

They stare at each other for a second, the prince and the beast. Arthur searches its eyes for something, though what he is not sure. He is not sure about anything anymore. He risks a last glance at the men, _his _men, the men who need him to be strong. _He _needs him to be strong because he can't lose.

The creature strikes with unnatural speed, launching itself at one of the knights. John, his name is and Arthur's known him for years. Now, he can only watch as John falls with a scream, his mutilated body splayed at an unnatural angle upon the floor. Arthur knows he'll never get up again.

The sound of ripping comes to Arthur's ears as another knight falls. He can only watch, wide eyed, as it kills them all, great talons slashing and tearing at all within reach. None defend themselves because they don't have a chance. It should have taken minutes, hours even, to decimate his force; instead, it's all over in a matter of seconds.

Now Arthur's the only one left and his time is running out. The rage he's been fighting to suppress suddenly engulfs him and he cries out, plunging his sword forward, once, twice. The creature seems surprised to meet resistance but it rises to the challenge, snapping and squawking, desperate to destroy. Arthur's finally worked out where its passion lies; killing and maiming. It's done it many times, but then so has Arthur.

With every slash of his sword, Arthur rages. He's forgotten how good it feels to let go, to allow his anger to erupt from inside him like a torrent. Words come to his head, hard words but words that are important nonetheless. They help him, drive him even. _Disappointment. Failure. Weak. Cowardly. A lesser son of greater men. _The words keep coming and the dance continues.

A sudden noise in the wood steals Arthur's attention and his concentration slips. He's on his back in seconds, dazed and disorientated, and his sword is thrown sideways. The blade is shattered. His head rolls to the left and his eyes lock with the glazed, empty stare of John. No. Arthur refuses to think of him like that. It's just a body, an empty shell where someone once lived. It's not John anymore.

Arthur tries to stand but he can barely move. His eyelids begin to drop and his breathing slows. He's sleepy, oh so sleepy. If he can just shut his eyes then everything will be okay...

It's dark now, with his eyes shut. He wonders if he should open them but decides against it. It's better like this. Easier, somehow, to await his doom in the darkness, the final blow that will finish him forever. Arthur wishes the creature would hurry; he can't abide this waiting, knowing that he failed, that this is the end. He'd always thought it was going to be so much more...

Why doesn't it kill him?! Does it want to extend the agony? Torture him further? Does it want to play with him first, break him until his body is no longer recognisable? No, Arthur realises. It's going to leave him to die, slowly and painfully, surrounded by those he should have protected. The ones he couldn't save.

The distant sound of voices drifts to his ears. They're strangely familiar but Arthur can't place them. He tries to open his eyes but can't; they're so heavy and he just wants to sleep. Sleep. He knows he should fight it but he can't remember why and besides, does he actually want to? The darkness is strangely comforting.

Someone shakes his shoulder and he groans. The person speaks and another voice answers. Arthur wishes that they'd just leave him here and save themselves; he doesn't need another death on his conscience and besides, he can't bear to imagine himself going back to the castle and seeing his father's sad glances as he realises what a failure his son is.

A sudden clamour breaks the atmosphere. The beast is back and it's more furious than ever. The sudden influx of noise makes the prince's head pound. Someone is chanting, but the words all seem to run together so that none are distinguishable. He hasn't the energy to listen harder, nor the desire. All he can think about are his friends, not just the ones lying dead beside him but all of them, everyone he's ever fought beside. Everyone he's failed.

Sleep takes him then, leaving the ghost of a thought embedded deep within his mind.

No matter what happens, Arthur Pendragon will remember them.


	4. Chapter 4: Greed

**AN: Sorry it took me so long to churn this one out. Too much to do and so little time to do it in.**

**Anyway, this one definitely is not the best as it's more subtle than the others (I think) so please don't hesitate to leave me a review if you think it's _too_ subtle! It's been bugging me all day but I decided to post it anyway :L.**

**As usual, standard disclaimer applies. :)**

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Greed; the sin of all men, or so they say.

Arthur can't remember a time when he couldn't be described as greedy. Maybe it just comes with the life style, but Arthur's always expected _everything. _After all, he's entitled to it, is he not? He's nobility. No, he's more than that. He's _royalty_, the purest in the land.

Still, maybe Arthur should try and enjoy life while he can. After all, why shouldn't he? He has the rest of his life to worry about the country, his father, finding a wife... That is, unless he dies soon. All these responsibilities and Arthur just wants to be a boy.

Still, he knows that he could never give up his position, not after having grown up with a life of luxury. He's used to having everything handed to him on a plate, not having to earn anything other than the grudging respect of his father that Uther's not fully certain he deserves. Maybe that's why earning Merlin's friendship has been so important to him, why he's tried so hard. Someone finally believes in him. Now, he just has to believe in himself.

The feast is beginning and someone hands Arthur a goblet of wine. He downs it before taking another off the silver platter, catching his father's eye in the process. Uther frowns disapprovingly, his cold eyes stern. _I wonder how far you'd have to delve into his heart to find a spark of warmth, _Arthur wonders to himself, before smiling cheerfully at his father and raising his goblet in defiance. Then he empties it, the fire in his stomach warming the coldness in his heart.

Alcohol always brings out the worst in Arthur. It allows him to drop the painfully rigid shield he keeps around himself at all times, the illusion of strength and security. In its wake, it leaves fear and oppression, a miserable coward who can only dream of a better life. Still, with alcohol comes a contentment that's hard to find elsewhere. Arthur's tired of searching for something he can only find at the bottom of a bottle.

The feast is in full swing now and the guests are chatting animatedly, occasionally pausing to give the sombre prince a strange look. Arthur glares back, both defiant and broken, a mere echo of the man Uther was, the man Arthur should be.

Someone starts talking to him and Arthur fights to hold back a grimace. It's Henry, a recently appointed knight far too enthusiastic for his own good. He doesn't understand about the true cost of glory, not yet. He doesn't realise that every time he kills, you become more and more of a monster until your only satisfaction in life is this. This that is nothing.

Henry continues to witter on, talking about how Arthur is his idol and he's following his dreams. Arthur listens to him nonchalantly surveying the hall with mild interest in the hunt for more wine. He spies a servant, arms laden with several bottles, intent on weaving his way through the crowd to the exit. Arthur rises to his feet, before taking the goblet from Henry and gulping down the contents. He then hands it back, leaving the younger man with a bemused look upon his face.

A hand on his arm stops the servant who whirls round in surprise. Two of the bottles slip from his fingers and he can only wait for them to shatter. The crash doesn't come and he opens his eyes in confusion; there in the prince's hands are the two bottles, expertly caught. The servant holds out a tentative hand for them, fingers splayed, but the prince simply laughs and shakes his head. When the servant returns to the kitchen, he's beaten for stealing.

The feast continues and Arthur retreats to his corner, idly watching the world go by as he polishes off one of the bottles. Arthur spies Morgana dancing with one of his knights and a strange feeling of jealousy and protectiveness washes over him. He passes it off as brotherly affection and takes another swig of wine, wondering how it can be both his friend and his demon. It provides him with escape, he realises, but also with pain, pain he needs to keep him sober and stop him from going mad. It's easy to do here, cut off as he is from anything vaguely resembling normality.

As he drinks, he remembers a time when he had let his greed and cruelty get the better of him. He had been young, about sixteen, a flighty, conceited boy old enough to know better but too full of his own self importance to care.

It had been an accident, really. The woman hadn't known he was there, how could she with that great cart in the way? She hadn't meant to barge into him, to send him sprawling in the dirt. Her apologies rung in his ear, but he had smiled coldly and ordered her to pay five shillings on the spot. _She hadn't the money_, she told him. _Very well_, he had replied. _Your necklace will do._ She'd looked at him with frightened eyes, begging him to reconsider. _It was her mothers, _she'd said, but he took it anyway, so eager had he been to humiliate and cause heartache. What made it worse was that Arthur had known that he was in the wrong, yet he had punished her anyway, a little old woman too feeble to match up with the prince. Today, the necklace sits in his wardrobe collecting dust, the silver chain having grown tarnished and unsightly. The Arthur who had taken it had thought himself invincible. The Arthur he sees today is anything but.

Uther is chatting to Gaius, the court physician. Arthur watches them nervously, wondering what tribulations they are plotting, what secrets they are discussing. Uther has many secrets, and Arthur's tired of being last to know. A tall, gangly figure approaches Gaius and Arthur finds himself smiling for the first time since the feast began. Merlin. Arthur can trust Merlin with anything because Merlin is the one person who doesn't lie to him. The one person who believes in him.

Still, even Arthur is surprised that he's fought so hard to gain Merlin's friendship. The boy's only a servant after all, no one important. It's not like his opinion matters. That's wrong, Arthur realises, because Merlin's opinion does matter. It matters to Arthur. Arthur, who's used to having everything handed to him on a plate, not having to earn anything other than the respect of his father. Maybe that's why earning Merlin's friendship had been so important to him, why he's tried so hard. No. That makes it seem so fickle, almost as if it was a game to him. Arthur's tried because he's finally found someone who believes in him.

A tap on his shoulder makes him jump. It's only Morgana, her eyes bright, her mouth stretched in a tight line.

She asks him something about a glass, but Arthur's too lost in the soft lilt of her voice to pay much attention. She's the very effigy of beauty, he thinks before shaking his head. Of course, there are far more beautiful people but they are not Morgana.

Arthur stares at her with bewilderment as she hands him a glass. _You drink out of it,_ she tells him, a mixture of concern and laughter in her eyes. Arthur scowls, purposely taking a long swig from the bottle. The alcohol burns his throat but he doesn't care. Finally, only a few mouthfuls remain and he decants the rest into the goblet, realising that with every drop of it, Arthur's pouring away a little of his soul.

Uther catches his eye, and beckons the prince over. Arthur sighs, rising too quickly and making his head swim. Momentarily, he has to clutch at Morgana for support. He lets go quickly, ambling over to the king's throne clumsily.

When he gets there, Uther pats the chair next to him, an invitation for him to sit. Arthur shakes his head and stays standing, unwilling to partake in the games Uther no doubt has planned. Arthur's father gives him a strained smile, this time thumping the seat so hard that several dancers look his way. He beams at them before turning back to his son, expression clouding as Arthur, ever the unwilling, sinks into the chair beside him. Uther immediately removes the empty wine bottle, much to Arthur's annoyance. He decides to seize another as soon as he can, not because he wants it but because he knows it will anger his father.

The dance is picking up now, though neither Pendragon nurses any desire to join in. All the false pleasantries and what will they have to show for it? Nothing other than grief, despair and regrets. And so they watch, the two generations of Pendragon, united by blood, but distant by heart.

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**Please read and review! :D All feedback is very much appreciated and I always reply (though it might be late as I have the memory of a fish :L)**


	5. Chapter 5: Sloth

**AN: IMPORTANT! Okay, to fully understand the way I've presented this sin, you have to know that originally, it was called the sin of sadness and despair. In early years of Christianity, it was characterised by what modern writers describe as melancholy: apathy, depression and joylessness. Modern sloth is categorized as a failure to act, indifference and laziness, and unwillingness to care (thank you, oh mighty Wikipedia :D). Anyway, this chapter is going to contain elements of both the modern and 'old fashioned' Sloth. **

**Btw, is it just me who thinks that gluttony and greed are pretty much the same? I mean, both can be related to food :/. **

**Thank you to all prior reviewers. I was a wee bit negligent in putting names :(****.**

**Also, I wrote this chapter before episode nine aired but only got round to posting it today, hence why it's not the most up to date of things. However, the next chapter is definitely going to be set after chapter nine so hopefully it will be less angsty now that Arthur knows Uther cares :D.**

**Ah well. On with the chapter. Reviews are appreciated. Please say if you think I'm repeating the same thing :/**

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Sloth; Arthur doesn't think it applies to him but it does.

He's not idle after all. In fact, he rarely stops. Exercise is an easy method of distraction, a safe way to keep the pain at bay for a while. The blades of the swords do not hurt him and the shields of the men cannot stop him. His strength lies in his being occupied, in being in the company of those his father considers lesser men.

No. Arthur Pendragon is not indolent, not in that sense. He doesn't understand that it does not just mean laziness, that you don't have to be inactive to be slothful. No, it can be a failure to love, a failure to act and Arthur's guilty of both.

He thinks about them now, all those people that he could have saved, the ones that his father had put to death. He could have given them the gift of a second chance, a new life away from persecution and anger with just a few simple words. Instead, he'd said nothing, and now, their souls rest uneasily on his conscience.

His conscience. It's so battered and bruised that he's not sure that he has one anymore. He remembers a time in the past, a time before Merlin, when he had a different servant. A better servant. Sure, Merlin does everything he asks, but it's not without an air of defiance and disgust. Merlin doesn't want to do it and he lets it be known instead of just accepting it like any other servant his father employs. Still, in a way, Merlin's attitude conjures up respect and admiration from Arthur, not the anger and disgust that would have seized him several months ago. Merlin has a gift of changing people, of making them better. Arthur would like to be more like Merlin.

No. Truth be told, his other servant was better because Arthur didn't care about him. Arthur's only ever really cared about himself, and now he's allowing himself to be troubled by Merlin and that frightens him. People can only hurt you if you care about what they can take, and Arthur's not sure that he can lose anymore. He's lost enough already.

His thoughts drift back to the other servant again but he can't remember the young man's name. He had been another one who Arthur had failed, one that he should have fought for and saved. He could still remember that haunting, pleading look in the man's eyes as he was taken to the pyre. A sorcerer, Uther had called him, so blinded was he by his hatred of anything magical that the slightest act of strangeness prompted his wrath. Arthur had known better – the young man was no more sorcerer than Arthur was a peasant – yet he had said nothing. To this day, the young man's screams still rang in his ears.

Shame grips Arthur and his chin drops down to his neck. If only he'd reasoned with his father more, made him listen instead of giving up the minute that the conversation had become an inconvenience to him. If only he had been a better son, a worthier son, a son to make all fathers proud, Uther might have listened! If only he'd been a better prince then he might have made a difference.

Arthur glides over to his window, his handsome face illuminated by the silvery moonlight. His mother used to love Camelot at night, at least according to Uther she had. Arthur couldn't see why; darkness fell like a blanket till all that was beautiful was devoured by its ravenousness. What was to love when there was nothing to see? Arthur can't understand, even now. Then again, Arthur hasn't loved anything in years.

He's afraid, he realises, afraid to love because everything he cherishes gets taken from him and he's left alone again. Sooner or later, there will be no one left.

Uther doesn't understand. He can't understand because he's not like Arthur. Uther is strong and independent, a true king living the present, not the past. He doesn't seek the absolution that Arthur so desperately needs. No, Uther's a stronger man by far, though Arthur has a strength of his own even if he hasn't realised it yet.

Uther thinks he can break him, bend him to his will so that Arthur becomes just another brainless subordinate afraid to challenge him. He doesn't understand that you can't break something that's already broken.

The moon seems to grow larger as Arthur watches it, the ethereal glow casting his chamber into shadows. He remembers a long time ago, back when he was a boy and did not carry the cares he does now. He had stared at the moon and the stars, listening to the last sounds of the army arriving back from fighting a war against a neighbouring province. He'd known even then that some of them had not returned.

He remembers the sound of women weeping and children crying in the dark. Arthur hadn't cried. He had simply listened and stared at the moon waiting for the loud rapping of his father upon his door. He could hear him, loud and harsh, talking over the much softer sound of a woman lamenting the fallen. Angels, she'd called them, brave followers now residing in heaven and watching over those left behind. Arthur's mother was an angel too, he had thought. He'd imagined her smiling but in her blue eyes, there had been sorrow; she had wished she could come back to him, to hold him in her arms like all mothers hold their children, and for a while, that had been enough.

Doubt had come with age and the image had faded; there was no such things as angels. Arthur's too old to believe in fairytales anymore.

No. There was no life after death because there was no God. Not for Arthur, the faithless. There is just darkness, endless darkness and pain; why should it be any different in death? It didn't care about whether you were good a person or not. Sooner or later, you were all subjected to the same inescapable fate.

And what happened then? Arthur had looked for ghosts but none had come. He had begged for one glimpse of his mother, of his friends, even of his servant but his requests had passed ignored. Any who spoke of interaction between the living and the dead were frauds and liars; such a thing has not happened to him, so why would it happen at all? Death is the one thing he has no control over and it frightens him.

Arthur hates being afraid. It's better to feel nothing than to feel fear, because it consumes his hope.

Hope. He gives all to his people and keeps none for himself. They need someone who is strong and brave. They think that they've found him in Arthur but they're wrong. If only they knew the true man that lurks behind his arrogant exterior, the one who spends his nights trying to muffle his angry sobs in a pillow. No, the people need him to be the strong prince of Camelot, not the weak, cowardly man that he really is.

His doubts grow as the rain begins to pelt at the window. Several drops hit him in the face but he does not recoil, instead leaning out as far as possible. There's an odd feeling in his gut, something like exhilaration, but it cannot be. The only time Arthur feels exhilarated is when he is risking his life. That's the only time he ever feels alive.

He longs to be happy, but inside, he's broken, drowning in his own misery. He has so many regrets, so many things that he wishes he could change so that when he looks in a mirror, he can see someone worthy of the title he bears. Instead, all he sees is a fraud and a murderer.

All he can see is a mistake.

Morgana doesn't understand. He's tried to make her, tried to talk to her about her father's death, but she shares none of the same guilt or remorse. Why should she? Her father had died for Uther after all, not his daughter. Morgana could sleep at night because her conscience was clean. Arthur on the other hand, was a different story.

He has the same dream every night, a frightening dream in which he understands little, only that he's afraid of what's happening. He's always stood on the battlements and it's raining, the sky crackling with lightning. Below him are several pyres, the great cloud of smoke slowly choking him as he watches them burn: his father, his mother, Morgana, Merlin... The great flames dance about their feet, orange and amber in a flickering twist of red. He knows he should save them but the motivation isn't there and he watches them die with indifference. It's only when they're dead that the pain comes. Then, he finds himself burning and the dream ends.

Sometimes, the dream is different and it's just Merlin on the pyre. An odd feeling rises in his stomach as he watches his servant burn, the pale flesh blistering and cracking in the heat. At first, he thinks it's confusion. Then he realises it's guilt, because somehow, he knows that this is his fault. No matter what happens in the dream, Arthur still wakes up screaming.

He doesn't tell anyone about his dreams. He bribes the guards to keep quiet and tells the servants that he will have them sacked if they breathe a word about his shouts. Secrets are of an abundance in Camelot and why should he be any different? It's not like Uther cares; he has the realm to run and an army to keep. Why should he concern himself with the affairs of his only son? _Yes, _thinks Arthur bitterly. _Why? _

His father. Yes, that's what Uther is, but first and foremost, he's a king. His son comes second, if indeed, he does come at all. Arthur wonders if Uther would miss him if he wasn't here. Perhaps, he reasons, because Arthur is Uther's last remaining piece of his mother. He's caught Uther crying in her chambers many times.

Arthur cries as well, though he never admits it. He's too old to spend his days in idle dreams. She's six feet under; dead and rotting and never coming back. The world is always against him, conspiring his downfall with every whisper. He has wronged, and in return, they will wrong him. For now, all he can do is weep for penance.


	6. Chapter 6: Gluttony

**AN: Sorry for the late update. Christmas has been manic and tbh, this has been really hard to write. I personally don't like it, but if I don't finish it soon, I probabaly never will :/.**

**Anyway, I've taken some creative licence with this one. It's been pretty hard to write as their's not really much you can do with gluttony and Arthur. Not sure if I've got enough stuff in there :/.**

**Please review (thanks to everyone who has; cookies for all :D) and hope you like it more than I do :).**

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Gluttony; a minor sin, so Arthur thinks, but one he's guilty of all the same.

It's not hard, he realises, to fall into the trap of taking everything for granted when you're the prince. Everyone is so eager to please, so eager to satisfy that they don't really care what you take. Have it all, they say, and Arthur does.

It's the same with food. He knows it, they know it, and yet they allow him to dominate, to take the best for himself and to leave them with the scraps. Later, they talk – oh yes, they talk – calling him selfish and arrogant, and all manner of awful names. False, Arthur thinks, false the lot of them.

They're there now, gathered like vultures at the feast, merrily acting like everything's okay, like there's no problem nor shortage of food. Arthur scowls. Uther should have stopped it.

As if to illustrate his disdain, he rips a bite out of a chicken leg before throwing it away. It's cold, the meat turning to ash in his mouth and he spits it out onto the plate. Feeling unfriendly eyes on his back, he glances around, his gaze slowly coming to rest on _her_. She's watching him now, accusatory eyes alive with malice and defiance. She must think he can't see, that hisstupor is stopping him from seeing reason; the Lady Morgana is bold – too bold. It would not be wise making an enemy of Arthur, not now when her relationship with Uther stands on the edge of a knife. Then again, Arthur has always thought her foolish.

He watches with amusement as she comes over, eyes alight with anger. An inconvenience, Arthur thinks, that she should come to his chambers now. He drains his goblet of wine and rises, head spinning slightly.

"What this time?" he sighs, sobering immediately when the sharp claws of her hand pierce the skin of his arm.

"I don't believe you, Arthur Pendragon," she hisses. "How can throw this food away when your people are starving?" She picks up the half eaten chicken wing and brandishes it in his face, features wrinkled with disdain. He laughs humourlessly but inside he's feeling sick. "You're being selfish, Arthur, selfish at a time when it's unforgivable!" Her voice trails off as she notices his empty stare, and her mouth widens to an 'o' shape. "Have you no heart?"

He freezes under her grip and she looks at him oddly, noticing too late the flash in his eyes. Anger; sweet, hot fury that licks at his bones and blinds him. He snatches his arm back, not even flinching at the tearing on nails upon flesh. "Arthur," Morgana gasps smelling the alcohol on his breath. "I'm –"

"Is this what you want?" the prince shouts suddenly, smashing the goblet to the floor before gathering up the food and marching to the window. Morgana watches in horror as he throws it down into the courtyard below, silver tray and all. Stunned courtiers look up but Arthur doesn't care. "Well take it!" He begins to reach for everything close to him and down it spirals until it lies beside the food; goblets and cutlery and jewellery and things that never were much use but were kept anyway. His things. Their things. _Her _things.

His mother. He feels a lump rise into his throat as he contemplates what he's done. The mirror lies in a thousand fragments beneath his window; broken, ruined and gone. It's lost to the darkness just as she was all those nights ago. He'll never get them back.

Morgana watches him, silvery tears dripping down her cheeks as hot flecks trickle down his. He pauses, foot shuffling over the wine. A waste he thinks before grabbing the bottle. Morgana reaches out to stop him before pulling her arm back. She can see from his face that he can't be reasoned with, that he won't listen to her no matter what she says. Just like his father she thinks frowning sadly; both too proud to accept help; both suffering because of it.

Arthur barely watches her for a second before his attention is yet again taken by the alcohol. The finest wine in Albion and the only bottle left in the cellar. Keep it for a special occasional, Uther had said, yet here Arthur was drinking the last few drops. Selfish of him, but was it not his right as prince to have the best, to _be _the best?

"Well, I fail at that one then," he mutters to himself before throwing the bottle to the ground beside the puddle of wine. Green glass flies everywhere and Morgana throws an arm over her face to protect it.

"Arthur," she cries. "Arthur, please -!"

"Guards!" he interrupts, his voice echoing around the room. "Guards!" Two men rush in, hands at their swords. Morgana momentarily forgets to breathe, afraid that Arthur's going to have her removed. Instead, he points at the glass and an ugly look crosses his face. "Clean it up," he commands, "and get me some decent food. This tastes like your mother made it."

The guards' eyes lock briefly before they go about their task. Not their job, they think, but they're not going to tell the prince that. They value their jobs, and their heads. They hurry off to get supplies and once again, the Lady Morgana and the prince are left alone.

"Arthur," she begins tentatively. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean –"

"Just leave," he tells her. "Leave and fetch that idiot Merlin. I want him to clean this up."

"But you've already asked the guards to? Merlin will surely be asleep. Let him slumber, Arthur. Don't take your anger out on –"

Steely eyes flash as he speaks in a cold, empty voice,

"Did you not hear me correctly? I said, fetch Merlin, and Merlin you will fetch. Do not ask me to repeat myself again."

Morgana nods before leaving, the blue train of her dress trailing through the red in her hurry to leave. Smears of wine mar the floor as Arthur watches her go, stern faced, stony eyed and as cold hearted as his father.

* * *

When Merlin finds Arthur, he's not in his chambers but in the courtyard below fingering what's left of a mirror. The gilded frame is bent under his finger tips, fragile glass underneath his feet. Several spectators have gathered to watch him, indiscreet in their interest. Beside the prince is a half full bottle of port and the remains of what looks to be someone's dinner. Merlin eyes the food with a tight frown, certain that now was not the time to be wasting food. Even when the curse was lifted, the food would have fed a family for a week.

"Arthur," Merlin says cautiously kneeling down beside the prince. "Arthur, I think you should come with me."

"No," the prince shouts jumping to his feet in anger. "I won't do it!" His expression changes then to one of outright confusion as his voice takes on a rather pitiful tone. "Who – who are you again?"

If Arthur hadn't been looking so forlorn, Merlin might have laughed.

"I'm Merlin," he told the older man. "Your manservant?"

"Manservant?" Recognition dawns on him and he sighs. "Oh. Right. Servant. Cleanthisssurpppp." His words slur into one and Merlin has to struggle to understand.

"Yes, Arthur." His eyes darken as he watches Arthur take a long swig from the port bottle before chocking up hiccups. "Why don't you give that to me?" His words are calm and without a hint of fear and for some reason, Arthur finds himself handing over the bottle. His grip lingers a second too long prompting some gentle tugging from his servant.

The spectators turn towards each other and begin to mutter, falsities, admiration and distrust alike. Merlin glares at them as he helps his master to his feet, momentarily flinching from the cracking of chicken bones beneath his feet.

"It's my fault, Merlin," Arthur hisses as they stumble forward. "I brought the curse on these people. Their deaths rest on my conscience."

"You'll fix it," Merlin promises knowing that the prince will remember none of this tomorrow.

"Howdyouknow?"

"I know you," Merlin replies as the castle door closes behind them.


	7. Chapter 7: Pride

**AN: Ah, this chapter has been a long time coming. I was kind of sad to write it actually seeing as it's the last sin :( but finally, I'm looking ready to have something completed. :)**

**I would absolutely love you if you reviewed and told me your thoughts. Thank you to everyone who has :) Your support has been amazing, as has the people who have just read or put this fic on their favourites/alerts :D**

**I was thinking about doing an epilogue for this fic as I think the final line of this chapter is a bit weak. :/ Yay or nay? I also thought about doing a similar thing like this for some of the other characters, eg: Uther or Morgana. Thoughts?**

**Enjoy and please, please make me happy and review :D**

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Pride; Arthur's worst sin, or so he supposes.

He thinks it strange that some would see it to be a worse offence than say, anger or greed because Arthur's not been taught that. To Uther, pride is a virtue, an important trait in a world characterised by people desperate to bring you down. How can it not be a good thing when it stops you from succumbing to their hatred and becoming little more than they? Uther is right in a way, Arthur reasons. A bit of pride can be a saviour. Too much, however, and it can destroy you.

He thinks back to a time when he was ruled by his conceit; vain, arrogant, never entertaining the possibility that he could be anything less than great. People who disagreed with him were fools, envious of his virtues, and he was certain there were many. Now, Arthur realises, he was the fool – still _is _the fool – because he allowed himself to believe that he was better than everyone else, that he was more worthy than _everyone _else.

"Why though?" The question escapes his lips before he can suppress it, echoing around the otherwise silent chamber. He makes the mistake of allowing himself to think about the answer, feeling shame at what he discovers. Arthur is proud because it is an easy emotion that he is capable of controlling. Arthur likes to control things; he's done it all his life.

Now that he's had time to consider it carefully, he decides that easy is not quite the right word. _Easier, _maybe, but nothing in his life is easy. How could it be when so much rests upon his shoulders? Him, the prince, old before his time yet barely out of manhood. No, nothing is easy. It never has been.

Of course, _they_ think his life is simple. Arthur doesn't blame them; to the idle eye, it appears that way; he's rich, handsome, skilled with a blade and appears to get everything he lusts after, be it admiration or something more substantial like flesh. If only they knew that the one thing he wants most in the world is the one thing that is completely unreachable.

He watches her often when he thinks she isn't looking, blue eyed gaze taking in every inch of her face. There's no disputing that she's the most beautiful woman in Camelot, perhaps even in Albion with that pale skin, dark blue eyes and those incredible raven locks. As each day passes, he becomes increasingly certain that he loves her, that it's her he wants to be at his side for the rest of his days. Of course, Arthur's never even told her; too proud he realises, too proud to admit that he's being lying about his feelings for her for the last ten or more years.

He won't even tell her now though his feeling have not changed. Sure, he's thought about it, but how can he, the calm and collected future heir to the throne, come undone and bare his soul to the one thing that terrifies him most of all? And what would she say? Certainly not the words he's aching to hear at any rate. She's too aloof for that, too much like him to be meek and submissive.

If he's honest with himself, deep within his mind there's a thought that grows daily and he knows, knows that it's true. It frightens him, hurts him even, but then the truth has never been kind to Arthur. Morgana is not meant for him; she never has been.

Still, he can't help but wish it would turn out differently. One day, he decides, he would like her to see him for who he really is, not the pompous, arrogant... prat – yes, that's it – that he presents himself as.

Much to his surprise, the chamber door is thrown open suddenly to reveal a bizarrely dressed Merlin grinning inanely. The servants face falls slightly as he sees the empty bottles of wine beside his master, and, though the grin soon returns, the eyes don't sparkle like they did. Like they _should_, thinks Arthur.

"You're not dressed," Merlin says pointedly, gaze drifting to the clothes laid out upon the chair.

"You're not smiling," retorts Arthur with a scowl. Merlin can't help but notice how the words are slurred together slightly.

"It's not a question about whether I'm smiling. You're going to be late for the banquet!" There's a pause of about two seconds before he continues indignantly, "and I am smiling."

"Not properly."

The two men glower at each other across the room, one with annoyance, the other with grudging admiration. Then, Arthur stumbles over to the chair and begins to pull on his clothes, blissfully ignorant that his shirt is on back to front.

"Arthur," Merlin begins before biting his tongue. Drunk Arthur is often unpredictable and occasionally frightening.

"What?"

"Doesn't matter."

Another pause, another moment of uncomfortable silent. And then, Arthur asks a question that caches the younger man off guard.

"Have you ever loved someone, Merlin? I mean, truly loved someone? Loved them enough that you would die for them?"

Merlin pauses, his hand loitering on the brim of his hat as he contemplates his answer. Now he thinks about it, everyone he has put his life on the line for has been because he had to. Even his mother, sweet, unsuspecting Hunith, had been saved, in a way, because it was what was expected of him. Because she is his mother. Had it been someone else, someone whom it was his own choice to love, would he have acted differently?

"I don't know," Merlin answers truthfully, "but I think so."

Arthur just nods, his own answer buried deep inside his head as he struggles with lacing up his boots.

"Do you want some help –?"

"No." The reply is short, snappy, and Merlin realises that the time for sharing has passed. Arthur's withdrawn into himself again and the walls are a hundred feet high.

"Okay then."

The atmosphere is tense for a few minutes, the sound of leather grating against leather filling the otherwise silent chamber. Merlin shifts nervously, breathing only when Arthur rises. Shakily, he gets to his feet.

"Clean that up," he says, pointing to the wine bottles, and with that, Camelot's Great Sinner passes through the door.

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**AN: Please review & give me your thoughts on doing an epilogue/like fic for a different character :D**


	8. Chapter 8: Epilogue

**AN: Well, here it is; that long awaited epilogue which I've been writing for about three months :L. It's not perfect but I think (hope) it does the rest of the fic justice.**

**My first _completed _fic. :)**

**And, *sniff*, I feel quite sad actually :/ (odd I know). Thanks to everyone who reviewed; your kind comments and support have meant more than I ever thought possible and if I'm a semi-decent writer, it's only because of how people have helped and encouraged me. :)**

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A year; that's the amount of time that Merlin's been Arthur's manservant for, and yet it seems longer. Years longer, Merlin would have said if asked. After all that they have been through and all that they have seen, four lifetimes would not seem long enough.

And yet here they stand, two men with two very different personalities linked by a destiny so strong that there is no escape, no chance to follow a different path. All those childhood dreams, all the idle wishes made upon the diamonds in the sky suddenly seem lost, their value worthless. They were then and this is now, and if Merlin is honest, it's a good now. For the first time in his life, he has friends, people to care about and rely on. Even Arthur, the silly, snobbish prince whom Merlin had detested so much when they first met, is his friend.

Merlin can see it now; all the times they've gone the extra mile for each other, all the ways in which they've struggled to keep each other alive. Both have far surpassed what is expected to them in terms of the servant-master relationship because they have an unvoiced understanding. There's no going back to life without each other now. Merlin's uncertain that such a life exists.

Arthur seems to be thinking the same thing if his morose gaze is anything to go by. Then again, he could just be pining for the mead Merlin has just confiscated from him. They've faced monsters, demons and fiends unscathed, and yet Arthur is murdering himself with the bottle. Drink is the prince's Achilles heel. Everything else just makes the impending death quicker.

Merlin busies himself with tidying up the clothes Arthur's thrown on the floor. He hums to himself a gentle tune his mother used to sing to him about an otter, though the words have been long forgotten. As he listens, a new voice joins in, raspy with drink and slightly out of tune, but there are the words and at once he is taken back to his bed in his home village and Hunith is crooning beside him.

Words. So easy and so sweet. So devastating when in the wrong hands. Words are powerful, Merlin realises, and yet so often they are abused; an 'I love you' said for the wrong reasons, a 'hate' used in the heat of the moment where none really exists at all. One word can be the difference between life and death. Merlin knows that better than anyone.

In his bed, Arthur is snoring, the simple song well and truly forgotten. The land of sleep is his playground and he smiles, the fear and shame of the day having become lost in the images of hope and happiness. Merlin watches him briefly, a strange sort of affection in his heart.

Arthurs's going to be okay, he realises, and Merlin is too, because whether the prince realises it or not, Arthur Pendragon is going to save the world one day.


End file.
